How unexpected that, in a year where it became less relevant to my life than ever before, my favourite two singles of the year should both have emerged from “dance” culture. But then there’s no arguing with this kind of sheer, unassailable magnificence.

What makes Lola’s Theme so special is simply this: that it can single-handedly turn a shit night out into a great night out. Instantly. For during the few minutes that it’s playing, even the bleakest, shoddiest dive on the planet can glimpse transcendence – and even the most wretched of lost souls can experience redemption. As for me, I’m not ashamed to say that I have openly wept to this record in the middle of a crowded dancefloor – and have felt all the better for having done so.

All of which means that, thanks to a cannily timed vote earlier in the day, WE HAVE A WINNER!

Step forward Chav Gav: citizen of Leith, frequently mentioned in dispatches at Naked Blog, and even a very occasional blogger in his own right. (I remember this lurid tale particularly vividly.) E-mail me with your address, and I’ll stick the CDs in the post.

However. I do feel that a consolation prize is due to one poor soul: a dogged tryer in this contest, who has dolefully admitted that he never wins anything, and who came so agonisingly close to tasting victory this week.

(How could I ever refuse? You’ll feel like you win when you lose! Oy!)

I hope that at least some of you have enjoyed this ridiculously long and drawn-out spectacle over the last few weeks. It has probably cost me what little chance I had of winning a Bloggie, but f**k it: I still have my integrity, and isn’t that infinitely more important than these mere baubles?

(You know: for a moment there, I almost convinced myself.)

To the rest of you: thank you for bearing my indulgence with such good grace, and I hope that you managed to mine at least some small measure of value from all the trainspotterishness. I know this isn’t a music-blog, and I’ve not even been particularly aspiring/adhering to music journalist values during this series. What I’ve really been trying to do – especially in some of the longer pieces, as highlighted in bold in the list above – is talk about music as it relates to my own personal experience, rather than to the world at large. In this respect, maybe I haven’t really departed so far from “personal” blogging after all.

There will now be a brief refractory period, during which I shall endeavour not to talk about music at all for a couple of weeks or so – at least until the next overblown blog stunt comes along. (Long-standing readers will know of what I speak.) Wish me luck!

Tell me, tell me, is life just a playground? Think you’re the real deal honey, and someone’ll always look after you? But wake up baby, you’re so totally deluded, you’ll end up old and lonely, if you don’t get a bullet in your head…

So unarguably great that it was a hit twice over in 2004 – reaching #12 in January and #14 in July.

Tactical last-minute voters: this is your final chance to make an educated guess, before I reveal my favourite single of 2004 some time between now and midnight (UK time).

“It is one of the most perceptive and sublime dissertations there has been on the relative role of the male and female psyches in our perception of music and what effect it has upon us, what functions it can serve or surpass. Moreover and beyond this, it is one of the finest meditations on how we view music of the past, what we allow it to mean to us when we are not exhausting ourselves pursuing the ghost of newness.”

With two Franz Ferdinand singles already in my countdown (at numbers 87 and 85), this one – by far their biggest song, and so ubiquitous in 2004 that you scarcely need me to explain its appeal – was another doddle to predict.

And predict it you did! Well, kind of. For hereby hangs a tale.

Having been knocked off the top of the leader board some time in the middle of last week, dave requested a slight change to the rules, in order to give himself a second chance at winning make the game more interesting and enjoyable. Being an accommodating kind of guy, I instantly acceded to his request – allowing anyone who was knocked off the top another chance to make a guess.

But ONLY WHEN they were KNOCKED OFF the top.

And NOT WHEN they were STILL AT the top.

Unfortunately, this is the part which dave failed to grasp. And so, when Dry Your Eyes by The Streets put him at the top of the heap, what did he do but attempt to place a third – yes, a THIRD – guess, for Take Me Out, BEFORE being dislodged from pole position?

Having disallowed his guess, it was – of course – still visible in the comments box for all to see. Because I only delete comments in highly exceptional circumstances.

You can probably guess what happened next. Someone else saw the comment – thought “hmm, good guess” – and repeated it as their own.

So, should I have disqualified the guess, or should I have made dave accountable for his mistake and accepted it as valid?

Being a harsh yet fair task-master, I decided upon the latter course of action. Meaning that – of ALL PEOPLE! – the Steve Earle and Bruce Springsteen loving, all-modern-music-is-boring, I-thought-Franz-Ferdinand-was-a-dead-duke, look-dear-can-you-get-a-move-on-because-I’m-fed-up-with-all-this-pop-nonsense, defiantly and resplendently un-trendy Blue Witch now takes over the lead from dave.

My, but we’ve shared some times along the way, haven’t we? Trudging through the foothills of the lower positions – ascending the graceful slopes of the middle positions – and now here we all are: giddy with altitude sickness, inches away from the summit, half-blinded by the dazzling lights of the Final Five. Exhausted, and yet strangely exhilarated.

We had just finished watching the so-so Michael Douglas thriller on Sky. As I needed to check the progress of the match before heading out to meet A in the pub, I successfully negotiated a lightening-quick flick over to BBC1, in the few available seconds before Big Brother.

Only to witness, at that precise moment, Portugal’s extra time goal.

“Oh my God!” we shrieked.

“That’s it then”, I authoritatively declared, still labouring under the delusion that extra time operated on a sudden-death principle. “England are out of Euro 2004”.

And texted A in the sports bar:I'll get my coat. 😦

And finally looked up again, and realised that the game was still going. A-hum.

“I feel like we’ve jinxed the match”, I wailed.

“Better watch the rest of it, then.”

Within seconds, the last two effete footie-phobes in town had metamorphosed into standard issue Come On Englanders. Why, I could hear our very vocal chords hardening over, even as our vocabulary contracted into guttural monosyllabics.

Shoe-horned into the collective consciousness. Helplessly abased before the Higher Power of Speuuurght.

As Engerland equalised, some deep-seated Pavlovian impulse caused us to rise up off the sofa as one, making those tight little fist-stabs as we did so.

“It’s going to penalties!”

I text A again:F***ing hell! 🙂
He texts back:My heart!
We’re not built for this.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Striding into town to make it to the Roberts for last orders, deftly weaving my way through the shell-shocked crowds spilling out of the sports bars, I am struck by the weird, subdued atmosphere that prevails. It’s so… quiet. Everywhere I look, lads are perched on the edge of the pavement; or stretched flat out on it; or slumped against walls, absently texting. Directing my own video-montage, I start mentally overdubbing the soundtrack.

“I wanna see Sweden f***ing smash them in the semis. No, even better; I wanna see them get to the f***ing finals, think they’re gonna f***ing win, then…”

“Can’t believe they just played that Britney Spears song at the end. Like that’s gonna cheer us up…”

“Yeah but, you gotta admit, it takes a lot of guts to come back and equalise like that, right at the end…”

I give K a quick call, just to bear witness.
“Honestly, you’d think Princess Diana had just died.”

Even in the Roberts, the queens are all a-twitter. At the bar, I tell the story of how my Nokia – the gayest mobile in the whole world, like, ever – had changed footie to ennui. People start checking their own.

“No, it just comes up with foothe.”

“Darling! Ennui simply isn’t in my lexicon!”

As the beers kick in, a sort of refractory queeniness has begun to steal over us. A necessary corrective process, no doubt. Excitedly, A starts to tell me all about his new bit-of-rough builder friend.

“Darling! Lucky you! How rough exactly?”

“Well, just before Euro 2004, the police called round to his house and confiscated his passport. I think he must be on some sort of List.”

“Darling! The sex must be fabulous! But does he know that you’re a native Portugese speaker? He doesn’t? Oh, I don’t think you should tell him. At least, not unless you’re up for some extremely adventurous role play…”

In the late bar over the road, the mutual healing continues until stupid o’clock. Even the regular Thursday night trannies are bitching about that silly Swiss hem-hem of a ref. As ever, the more slurred and messy everyone gets, the more fulsomely articulate I become. (Why is this?)

It’s the landlord’s last night, so the final rounds of drinks are on the house. The wiry little skinhead in the corner has hitched his T-shirt up, his beltless waistband down, and is distractedly stroking the area in between, over and over and over again; the effect is quite mesmerising. Pints are sloshed onto the carpet, nonchalantly; arses are grabbed, inappropriately; no-one can understand a word that anyone else is saying, but no-one seems to care.